


You could be the one (to make me feel something)

by ele_amato



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Andrés is the lover Martín the beloved, Character Death, Fluff and Angst, He Just Doesn't Know It Yet, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Narcissism, Pining, Reversed Canon, Role Reversal, Romance, Soulmates, Suicide, There is some fluff I swear, We all know how this ends, idk if this is technically AU, kind of love at first sight, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:00:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24150103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ele_amato/pseuds/ele_amato
Summary: "Andrés had looked at him as he introduced himself, a bold expression on his face and a splendour in his blue eyes. That light was not like the one he had seen in his girls, no. It was a firm radiance, a flame that Andrés recognized as the one he was used to see in his own eyes when looking in a mirror."Or: the one where Andrés is the lover and Martín the beloved.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 6
Kudos: 63





	1. Dull Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Okay so, this is an unhealthy idea that came to my mind reading a tweet. It was a "what if" their roles had been reversed, and I decided to write a fanfic about it. Bad idea. 
> 
> I tried to stay as faithful as possible to their original characterizations and tried not to upset the stories, but limiting myself to reversing the roles of lover and beloved. For anything, you can find me on twitter @/eleanorloved!

Thinking back to his childhood, the first memory that recurs to Andrés' mind is one rather simple, bare, fatuous. He sees the cramped room that included most of the house in which he lived, a ruined wooden table to fill the room, and his mother who sat on the opposite side of him. The usual blank expression on her face, her dull eyes fixed on the plate in front of her, as she turned a spoon in its contents with absorbed air.

He couldn't explain why that was the first memory that came to his mind when he thought about his mother, but the images were vividly etched in his brain.

Perhaps because of the frequency with which that scene had repeated itself in his days, marking them as the striking of the clock does with the hour.

Ever since his father had left them, it was habit to sit at the table on his return from school, having lunch in a tense silence. Like a blanket it rested on them, on the few scattered furniture and on any surface of that room.

Initially it was an overwhelming presence, a suffocating hold that pinched his skin, making him move uncomfortably on that creaking chair. Over time, however, it became a comforting hug. He had lost interest in her empty gaze and was not seeking consolation or affection from her, and that mutism stopped being intolerant.

He didn't know for sure if her eyes had always been indifferent, or if her red lips had always been stretched in a thin line, similar to a wound. He had no memories of when his father was still around, too young to hold onto those moments and sew them into the canvas of his mind, but as a child he decided that when he was part of their lives, things were different.

Sometimes he spent his time imagining him; a tall man with a reassuring smile, who filled those bare walls with a warm laugh, like the crackling of a fireplace. He saw him sitting on their worn sofa, with his legs crossed, intent on reading a newspaper. Or at the bottom of his bed while tucking in his blankets, as Andrés had read so much in the small books that filled his shelf.

The man, in his daydreams, was always handsome. Like a superhero ready to save him from his tedious days.

But his mother was not always silent; sometimes she spoke to him in her monotone voice, talking about futile things without rhyme or reason. If Andrés was lucky and the day was promising enough, the woman also gave him articulate speeches, answered his questions and explained things to him when he was uncertain. As a child he didn't even realize how much he clung to those moments, unconsciously looking for any form of affection, or even just the awareness of being _seen._

The biggest problems came growing, when, at eleven years old, Andrés began to face the real world. In the new school, things worked differently. He could no longer spend the days lost in his thoughts, reading comics that the teachers lent him or sketching extravagant drawings in his notebook. He could no longer ignore his classmates.

Now they were buzzing around him, trying to talk to him or to grab his attention. But Andrés was not meant to be with people. Those kids bored him and on their faces he saw the reflection of his mother's coldness. They seemed to him to be empty casings. He observed their behavior, listened to their words, their laughter and Andrés did not understand them.

He did not understand the joy that sometimes lit up their face, the tears that streaked their cheeks or the redness that blazed on them.

When he once tore from his classmate's hands the new game he had been bragging about for hours, Andrés looked with amazement at the expression that hardened his face. Anger. Andrés recognized it immediately and a sensation of warmth spread across his chest. He was ecstatic. He looked at the boy's face and he could understand what he had in front of him. What this kid, which for him had always been a question mark, was feeling. He distinguished in his grimace what he himself felt most of the time.

Anger.

Immediately afterwards, even the tingling sensation that numbed his cheekbone, similar to that of a thousand needles, was familiar to him. The heat that burned his cheek in a hot flash wasn't frightening, no. It didn't terrify him like beaming smiles or copious tears. That was pain, and he knew how to identify it.

When he came home and left his mother sitting at the wooden table, he went to the bathroom. He looked for the switch with trepidation and once turned on the light, he stopped to look at himself in the mirror. In front of him he saw a lanky boy, his oversized sweatshirt made him look even thinner, and his dark hair contrasted with the pallor of his skin. Pallor that gave way to a purple bruise on his left cheekbone.

Andrés looked at it fascinated, curiosity pervaded him as he analyzed that stain not dark enough to be easily noticed. He felt oddly reassured.

From that moment he began to be the victim or the executioner of disputes. He instigated with the sole purpose of _feeling_ and was satisfied when he saw the traces on his body. He was comfortable with anger and now he had found a satisfying way to loosen his own, at least for a few moments.

He was not surprised when he was expelled, much less did he care. He had no close ties in that school and any other would have been a suitable replacement.

Unexpected was instead the visit of his mother that same evening, when she entered his room and sat on the bed very similar to a cot. Andrés remained motionless and held his breath, he did not know what to expect or what to desire. He let the woman's gray eyes fathom his bare, dry chest, following the purple speckles that marked his skin like footprints.

That evening his mother let him enter her world and Andrés asked questions. He asked full of genuine curiosity and desire to understand, let all his uncertainties turn into inquiries and listened avariciously to the meager answers that the woman was able to give him. The moment did not last long and Andrés could feel that their time was running out as those gray eyes returned to being covered with a veil of indolence, and he tried not to notice how that patina was wounding him like a slap.

He let that be enough.

That night Andrés learned about the Emotions. He learned that they were varied and with multiple faces, like Janus for the Romans, and each of them had multiple nuances. There was fear, sadness, happiness and surprise. Over time he understood that each was accompanied by an expression, a grimace, a smile. He recognized some of them and was able to experience them on his own skin, such as anger, euphoria, boredom and curiosity.

Over the years he learned them as languages: how he studied English, he studied discouragement. He learned French and joy. He spent his days immersed in books, looking for passion in theatrical dramas, pathos in epic poems and adoration in art. He had become so good as to make those feelings his and wear them like a mask in a play. Sometimes it was so convincing that he could hear their echo roll up in his chest, making his heart tremble for a few moments.

Despite his desire to know and learn, there were some things that he still struggled to understand. Of course, the concept was not difficult to him - he was certainly not stupid and he never considered himself as such. The problem arose in recognizing them.

He had never been able to feel empathy, and when his mother was caught by the disease, he watched her wither away like a spectator. He was at the theater and was witnessing a tragedy, but he was not touched by it. When she consumed herself and took her last breath, Andrés noticed that the look in her pearly eyes had not changed.

Love, to Andrés, had always been a stranger. He was able to outline its contours, give it a logical and scientific explanation, yet he did not understand it. In biology books he read about neurons and hormones, while in novels of boundless desire and affection. His mother had told him about how this could be born between a man and a woman and how, to the lucky ones, it could change life.

Andrés was curious by definition and could not do anything else but be fascinated by the idea of love, of craving, of devotion. He wanted to feel like Vrònskij and Anna, Romeo and Juliet, Marius and Cosette, Tristan and Isolde.

As with anything, he schematized it. There were many facets of love, attributable to two large groups. Love for a family member and love for a lover.

You love a family member, you’re not in love with them - there was a difference, and he felt a shadow of this when he met his stepbrother.

His name was Sergio and of himself, in his clumsy figure, he recognized nothing. He found that he had spent much of his childhood and adolescence in America undergoing experimental treatment, and it was he who told him that their father had been dead for years.

Andrés felt nothing.

The second type of love, the one full of passion, he ran after it all his life.

Getting infatuated with a girl was really easy. Andrés loved beauty and beauty loved him. It was not difficult for him to get into the graces of someone who had caught his attention and, the first time he touched a girl, Andrés was still very young. Whenever shining eyes looked at him with reverence, he was convinced that he had finally succeeded. He had caught love.

But love was elusive, and with the ease with which it arrived, it faded. The splendor of admiration ended up boring him. It was never enough, and the girl went back to being one like the others, conforming herself to that gray and confused mass of people not worthy of his attention.

People continued to tire him. Nobody was interesting and nobody deserved his interest. They were all anonymous shapes, one identical to the other, and Andrés could see through their smiles up to their mediocre and banal minds.

The only one to stand out from the flock was Sergio. Andrés did not take long to notice his intelligence; he was a brilliant boy. They found common interest in literature and, between one critical discussion and another, he began to feel something like affection grow in his chest. It wasn't much, but he _felt._


	2. Patterned Shirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given that the real names of some characters are still unknown, I decided to call "Omeir" Bogota and "Ivan" Marseille, following their nationalities.
> 
> This chapter is a little more introductory and from the next we will start seeing things gradually start moving. Enjoy the reading!

Over the years, between the divorce from his first wife and moving to Madrid, the relationship between Andrés and Sergio only strengthened. Since they lived in the same city it was not uncommon for them to spend evenings together at Sergio’s house, talking in front of the fireplace or enjoying the quiet of the garden when the weather permitted.

Sometimes they sat next to each other, in a silence that was different from the one that Andrés had been used to throughout his childhood. There was no feeling of discomfort or tingling under the skin; it was just appreciating the presence of each other. There was no need to speak.

Despite the great differences in their personalities, these were not an obstacle in their acquaintance. If it had been anyone else, Andrés probably wouldn't have given him a second glance, but Sergio wasn't anyone. He was his little brother, his father's blood flowed in him and that was enough to keep his interest alive.

The idea of asking the boy for information, memories, fragments of his father's life had repeatedly touched his mind, tempting and palatable. A desperate and unconscious desire to fill a void he didn't know he had.

Yet he had always stopped from formulating it, that fateful question. He savored the words on the tip of his tongue but never gave them vent, he did not free them from the cage that was his mind.

Instead, he sat there quietly, savored the wine and watched Sergio. He was a bizarre boy. Clumsy, awkward and graceless, yet endowed with captivating intelligence. Andrés noticed this from the comments he let out every now and then, from the articulated thoughts and from the lively gaze hidden behind the thick frame of the glasses that slipped on the bridge of his nose.

By observing him, he recalled all his knowledge in genetics and attempted to give a physiognomy to the confused shadow that was the face of his father. He combined their characteristics, their somatic features and thought of what face could have had the man who in his memories was nothing but a silhouette.

He knew it would have been easy to ask Sergio to show him photos, videos, something. Yet he never did, and he still did not understand why.

Sergio was the first to talk about it.

It was a spring evening and they sat in the courtyard at dusk, the dim light of the setting sun created blue and purple shades in the sky. They were in one of their relaxed silences, the chirping of birds and the tinkling of cutlery on the plates as a background, when his brother decided to utter a word.

“He was a good man, one of those who would do anything for their loved ones”

Yet he had no problem abandoning his son and his wife, leaving behind what should have been his family. What he should have protected. 

He just thought of it, deciding to keep it to himself.

He looked up to meet Sergio's eyes, a smile sketched on the man's thin lips. Andrés imagined it was nostalgia, what he could read across his face.

“When he wasn't out getting money for my treatment, he would spend time by the side of my bed. He would sit on a chair and read the book I asked him, or tell me stories to take me away from that hospital room, at least with the imagination"

And did he ever tell you about me?

Andrés put his fork on the plate and gave him his full attention, settling himself against the backrest. He tried not to notice the slight irritation that the boy's dreamy words were provoking him, deciding to remain silent and let Sergio go on with his story.

“He tried everything not to make me feel the weight of my illness, not to make me understand the sacrifices he made for me. He had a smile every time he entered my room, despite the dark circles, despite the wrinkles of concern”

Sergio looked down at his half-empty glass.

“He died in front of a bank, shot by the police. He stained his life with crimes to keep me alive, and in the end it was he who died "

Silence returned and Sergio brought back his gaze to him. His eyes were veiled with tears, his hands clasped on his lap.

_Sadness._

Andrés decided to break a smile, as a sign of reassurance. Then he wondered once again what he felt about his death, and the answer was still “nothing”.

  
Meeting his brother's friends was the next step in their acquaintanceship. It was on Sergio's twenty-third birthday, and he had insisted on having lunch together.

“We will be just a few,” he said, “it will only be a matter of hours.”

So Andrés had accepted. He had put on a starched shirt and arrived to the boy's house when the sun was perfectly high in the sky. He knocked on the door and took a few seconds to prepare himself for what would’ve happened in a few minutes.

As previously noted, Andrés was not made for people. He met and charmed dozens a day, they circled around him like insects at a light source and he simply allowed himself to be worshiped. Those were the established roles, and Andrés rarely reciprocated the interest. Yet in front of that door his stomach burned and his palms itched. For some reason beyond his understanding, he wanted to like those people.

When he sat down at the table set with detail and precision, two boys were already comfortable in their seats. One of them had dark skin, a broad face surrounded by a brown beard. Beside him was a younger boy, with a thin nose and sharp cheekbones.

They introduced themselves as Omeir and Ivan respectively, and the former turned out to be the most affable and approachable. It was he who carried the conversation for the first few minutes, Ivan who merely observed the newcomer curiously. Andrés followed Omeir in the chat, to which Sergio joined from time to time, busy finishing to cook.

“You don’t sound from here, did you arrive recently?”

“I have moved for a few years, but I guess I haven't completely detached myself from my roots yet”

Ivan smiled, his expression calm, and decided to join the conversation.

“I've been living in Spain for almost four years now, yet my accent hasn't improved that much”

“Eastern Europe, right?”

“Croatia, he moved here to study languages. We met at university", Sergio replied for him, looking out once again from the kitchen while rubbing his hands with a cloth.

Andrés brought the glass to his lips to wet them with the red wine.

“Parles-tu français?”*

“Et six autres langues”

He had a smirk on his face and Andrés decided that his presence was tolerable.

“Well, I don't speak Portuguese but I'm definitely hungry. Sergio, are you done?”  
Omeir leaned over to take a look inside of the kitchen and give himself an answer to the question he just asked, but Sergio entered the dining room and sat down at the table.

“Just a few more minutes, but we can’t start before Martín arrives”

Omeir snorted and returned with his back on the chair, his dark eyes raised to the sky.

“That boy needs to learn the concept of punctuality”

“And you should learn what patience is”, Sergio replied, raising his fingers to adjust his glasses.

In the end, only a few minutes passed before the bell rang again, and Sergio got up to go and open the door. In the dining room you could hear the muffled sounds of the greetings that the two boys were exchanging in the hall and, in a short time, the new guest came into the room, a sneering expression painted on the young face.

“Hello my dears, forgive the delay but I must have lost track of time”

“And also the sense of decorum, given as you are dressed”

The newcomer cast a good-natured glance at Omeir while taking off his jacket. He rest it on the back of the chair, before taking a seat and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. It was decorated with an extravagant pattern that faded in eccentric colors.

He noticed the presence of Andrés, who sat in front of him with a confused expression, and offered him an affable smile. “You must be the famous brother,” he began with a spirited tone. Then he held out his hand “I am Martín Berrote, great pleasure to meet you.”

\------

*"Do you speak French?"

"And six other languages"


End file.
